


Sunday Morning

by Ralkana



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Pets, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Lucky spend a lazy Sunday morning waiting for Clint to get back from an op. Well, that's the plan, anyway...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mzpineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mzpineapple/gifts).



> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing.
> 
> For Kimmy, for her birthday, and because her artwork makes me happy and her lovely feedback always makes me smile. Happy birthday, Kimmy. Sorry it's a little bit late!
> 
> This story fills my "curtain fic" square on my Trope Bingo Round 3 card.
> 
> Thanks to orderlychaos for the lightning fast beta! You're a star!

 

It was the smell that woke Phil up.

"Dammit, Clint," he mumbled, and then he froze. The weight on the other side of the bed was wrong, the sound of the breathing he could hear was wrong, and Clint was away on an op. There was a quiet doggy whine, and Phil sat bolt upright, swearing. "Lucky!"

The dog, startled out of his slumber, snorted awake, woofing directly into Phil's face.

"God, dog," he groaned, leaning back as he scrubbed his hands over his face. "What the _hell_ did you roll in?"

Lucky just stared at him out of his good eye, tongue lolling out, sending clouds of evil-smelling doggy breath Phil's way.

"Down," he ordered, with a snap of his fingers, and when Lucky whined pitifully, he repeated it, harsher. "Down!"

He pointed at the bedroom door. "Out!"

Lucky scrambled off the bed and slunk out of the room, and Phil groaned as he caught sight of the soiled sheets and comforter. He wasn't sure what the hell was all over the linens, but he didn't particularly want to get close enough to find out. He slid out of bed, efficiently stripping it and bundling the dirty linens together before he slipped on a t-shirt and a pair of sweats and reached for his glasses.

He shoved the linens into the washer and then went to find the dog, who was hiding under the breakfast bar. Phil ignored him long enough to brew a pot of coffee and drink two cups. It was somewhat amusing to watch the dog glance at him -- having to turn his head to compensate for the missing eye -- and then look away as soon as he realized Phil was watching him.

"Clint is coming home today, and he is _not_ coming home to you smelling like that," Phil told him as he set his washed mug in the dish rack. "Come on."

He grabbed Lucky by the collar and dragged the dog toward the bathroom. Lucky wasn't actively resisting, but he definitely wasn't helping, and Phil's recently healed chest gave a warning twinge. This wasn't really the type of rehabilitative activity his therapists would recommend, he was sure.

Pushing Lucky into the bathroom, he followed him in and shut the door firmly behind them.

The dog lay down on the tiles by the door and curled in a ball, hiding his face from Phil. He stayed there as Phil filled the bathtub and checked the water to make sure it wasn't too hot or too cold, and then found the special shampoo -- the one he'd bought, since from what he could see, Clint was more than willing to use his own shampoo or shower gel on the dog, if he ever even bathed Lucky at all.

He rose to his feet and turned to the dog. "Come on," he said, without a prayer of a hope that it would work. Lucky looked up at him, head tilted in feigned confusion, and Phil couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't tell Clint, but you are _so_ much like him sometimes," he grumbled, taking hold of the dog's collar once more.

Lucky whined and pulled back, claws scrabbling over the tile as Phil yanked him toward the tub, grunting with the effort. There was no way to urge him over the edge of the tub, so Phil sighed and wrapped his arms around the disgusting fur of the dog's middle and lifted him into the bath.

Yelping filled the air as the dog hit the water, Lucky splashing frantically around the tub, claws scraping against the porcelain as he tried to gain purchase.

"Stop it," Phil grunted as he squatted by the tub. "You're fine. It's not hot or cold, I checked, come on, Lucky, it's just a ba -- "

To his astonishment Lucky bunched his legs and leaped over Phil's head, straight out of the tub, back legs thudding against Phil's shoulder and knocking him onto his ass on the wet tile.

"Dammit, no!" he yelled as Lucky shook, sending sprays of filthy water in every direction. His front paws worked feverishly at the bathroom doorknob, and Phil swore again as it clicked open and Lucky shoved his nose into the narrow gap, widening it until he could squeeze his body through and escape.

Phil shot to his feet and chased after him.

"Stop!" he roared, putting every bit of Senior Agent Phillip J. Coulson of SHIELD into his voice. Lucky froze, cringing and whining, halfway through the apartment, dripping water everywhere, a murky trail showing his path. He ducked his head, sodden tail between his legs, and Phil felt like an asshole, since Clint had told him everything he knew about the dog's history of abuse. Phil stepped closer and the dog whimpered and cowered, flinching from him as Phil crouched by his side.

"It's okay, buddy, you're fine," he said reassuringly, patting the dog's damp head. Lucky whined and nosed tentatively at his palm, and Phil shook his head and laughed ruefully.

"What a mess," he groaned. "Come on, we're not done."

Lucky whined and whimpered but went unresistingly as Phil dragged him back to the bathroom, shutting _and_ locking the door behind him this time. He dumped the dog back in the tub, quickly scrubbing away the remains of whatever mess the dog had rolled in, rinsing until the water ran clear. Lucky trembled and flinched but remained still, and Phil tried not to feel like a monster.

When they were done, he dried the dog off as much as possible with a couple of thick towels, laughing at the way it made Lucky's fur fluff up. Dropping the wet towels to the soaked bathroom floor, he took Lucky's face in his hands.

"If you immediately escape and roll in something disgusting, I'm... sending you to obedience camp. For _months_ ," he threatened solemnly. It was as close to military school as he could think of. Lucky whined and stared at him out of his one good eye, looking up at Phil through his lashes in a way that reminded Phil so much of a certain young circus-trained archer that had stared at him that way once, sullen and grateful and scared and a tiny bit hopeful. Phil huffed a laugh and scritched the dog behind the ears, because what else could he do?

He left the bathroom, Lucky trotting at his heels, walking through the apartment and avoiding the messy pools of water Lucky's flight had left all over the floor until he reached the kitchen. He pulled down the box of treats that were supposedly stored out of Lucky's reach, but he didn't put it past the damn dog to somehow climb on the counters and fridge to reach them. They were supposed to help with dog breath, and God, did Lucky need one. He offered it to the dog, who took it after a quick sniff, and then he put the box away again and set to cleaning up the evidence of Lucky's escape.

As he mopped and scrubbed, Phil thought of the threat he'd aimed at Lucky. Military school had been the constant threat in his teen years, his parents at a complete loss about what to do with a sullen, rebellious adolescent who loved nothing more than misdemeanors, petty vandalism, and starting fights. He could see now what a little shit he'd been, but back then he'd just been so _angry_ , unable to see anything beyond the red haze that filled his days.

He made the bed, snapping the sheets into place with ordered precision, smoothing the clean comforter down. Phil had never believed Rod and his mother would make good on the threat, but they finally had, halfway through his junior year.

He'd hated it, of course, had run away twice in the first four months and been brought back kicking and screaming and swearing. But it had -- as cliche as it was -- taught him discipline and impressed upon him order and boundaries, things that had been missing in his life since his father's death. It had given him a purpose and shown him what he wanted to do with his life, shown him what he could be good at, other than brawling and stealing cars.

Phil smiled as he put the bathroom counter in order -- two razors, two types of deodorant and toothpaste, and two toothbrushes, one purple and one red, white, and blue, because Clint had done the shopping and he thought he was hilarious.

The other thing military school had done for him was teach him about himself, though he was pretty sure that wasn't one of the school's intended goals. The clandestine fumblings in darkened dormitories, empty classrooms, and deserted locker rooms had helped him figure out who he was, and settling into his skin had banked the fire within him, helped him use it constructively rather than letting it consume him.

He threw the filthy, sodden towels into the washer and resolved to call Rod soon. The man was his father in every way but blood, and Phil missed him.

Glancing around the apartment, Phil rubbed a hand over the small of his back, and breathed in deeply, gauging the ache in his chest.

Things were clean now -- probably cleaner than they'd been for a while, he thought with a grin. Clint's housekeeping regimen was... lax, to say the least. Phil considered the job done, and decided to take a couple of over-the-counter painkillers and settle on the couch with the newspaper on his tablet and a cup of tea.

He made himself comfortable on the couch and started to relax, his attention half on his tablet and half on Lucky, who was creeping closer and closer every minute. Phil turned to set his empty mug on the side table, stifling a laugh as he heard the jingle of Lucky's collar and felt the couch shift under the dog's weight. When he glanced back, Lucky was lying on the couch, looking innocently up at Phil, his tongue hanging out in a big doggy grin.

Phil's campaign to keep the dog off the furniture was never going to work unless Clint enforced it too, so he just shook his head, one hand unconsciously settling on the dog's head, idly scratching as he read.

He was dozing lightly, tablet slack in his grip, Lucky deep into doggy dreams beside him, when the door rattled in its frame. He and Lucky both glanced at it blearily, blinking sleepily as Clint came in, gearbag in hand.

Clint stopped just inside the door and stared, a fond grin stealing over his face. "Well, if that's not a sight to come home to after a nine hour flight in coach and a three hour debrief, I don't know what is."

His voice was calm and even; it spoke of a successful mission and -- more importantly -- of personal satisfaction, so Phil smiled back, relieved.

"Welcome home," he said, stifling a yawn.

"Don't get up," Clint told him as he locked the door behind him and walked further in. "I'm just going to put my stuff away, so stay there, you look comfortable."

So Phil closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the couch as he listened to the familiar sounds of Clint stowing his gear and securing his weapons, and then the double thunk as Clint kicked off his boots and shoved them under the bed.

Clint padded back into the living room and settled onto the arm of the couch, and Phil hummed in satisfaction as he felt Clint's hand in his hair, carding gently through the strands.

"Careful," he mumbled.

"Yeah, yeah, not much left, I know," Clint shot back, a grin in his voice, and Phil would've scowled, but that would've taken too much effort. Instead, he snaked an arm around Clint and yanked until Clint overbalanced and fell into his lap.

Clint laughed as Phil wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Clint's neck. He'd showered at SHIELD and he smelled clean and fresh, his skin a little prickly with afternoon stubble.

"Cuddling, sir?"

"Mmmm, shh."

"Right, sir. Shutting up," Clint murmured into his hair. Lucky's collar jingled as he wormed his head in between the two of them, barking happily, and Clint laughed, scratching under his chin. "Did you guys have a lazy Sunday without me?"

"Something like that," Phil muttered, and breathed in deep, arms tightening around Clint -- and his damn dog. "Perfect now."

"Yeah," Clint said softly. "I guess it kinda is."

**END**


End file.
